


The Twelve Days of Christmas

by JBankai89



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Arguing, Christmas, Christmas Themed, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Making Up, Misguided Aziraphale, Oblivious Crowley, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBankai89/pseuds/JBankai89
Summary: On the first day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me...DO NOT TRANSLATE OR REPOST
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	The Twelve Days of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tenshikitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenshikitsune/gifts).

> A/N: Written as a gift for my Beta, the wonderful tenshikitsune. Please enjoy, this is my first attempt at a Good Omens fic, so I hope I did it justice ^.^
> 
> To my readers waiting for updates in my other fandoms: They're coming, I promise. I'm back to writing consistently, and it's just a matter of getting everything organized and finished before I can start posting again.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

  


_On the first day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


Well, that wasn't right.

Crowley had to stare for a good long while to ensure that he wasn't seeing things, or, rather, seeing more things than he usually did.

The partridge cooed from its perch on the bonsai pear tree. The tree itself seemed to be doing its level best appear as lush and verdant as possible; perhaps his other house plants had been giving it pointers—or warnings.

Still, the veracity of its existence didn't quite explain where it had come from, either.

He had no visitors, apart from the obvious one.

But why would Aziraphale miracle into existence a bonsai pear tree, complete with a _partridge?_

His phone rang in his pocket, and when he pulled it out, an image of Aziraphale savouring a morsel of cheesecake at the Ritz greeted him.

“Angel,” Crowley said by way of greeting, and he heard Aziraphale titter on the other end.

“Morning, Crowley,” he said cheerily. “Have time for a spot of breakfast? There's this _lovely _little café that opened up just round the corner from my bookshop. It's called _Eggscellence_. Can you believe that? They just serve breakfast fare _all_ day. What a novel idea, breakfast all day. What do you say?”

“I'll meet you there,” Crowley replied, and he narrowed his eyes at the partridge. It huddled on its branch, looking properly terrified.

Without a word, Crowley exited his flat and made for his Bentley downstairs.

  


_On the second day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


Crowley was awoken in the most unpleasant way the following morning. It was rather a good thing that demons didn't get hangovers, at least not from wine and the company of an angel, as that would have made the experience even more unpleasant.

However, wine or some vestige of its previous existence did not have anything to do with his abrupt wake-up call, given that a _turtle _had landed directly on his face.

Crowley jolted up, and the box turtle tumbled down from his face and onto the bedspread, its little legs and wings flailing, as though the creature hadn't the foggiest idea how to use either set of limbs.

A second winged turtle landed next to its fallen companion, its wings white like a dove's, and it coaxed it to its feet.

What in the name of Hell was Aziraphale _doing_? Evolution gone mad?

Crowley fumbled for his phone on the bedside table, but half a beat later he stopped short.

Was he _certain _that Aziraphale was to blame for...whatever this was?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps...Beelzebub was finally getting his revenge for how badly the Apocalypse had gone?

_In a very odd and roundabout way, _Crowley mused, _but Beelzebub was certainly a more likely candidate than my angel_.

Crowley scratched his forehead with the edge of the phone as he tried to decide what to do. Confronting Beelzebub was hardly on. It would only encourage him to keep on annoying Crowley for the rest of eternity.

So, it would seem the only thing to do was ignore it, and maybe it would go away.

  


_On the third day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


“_Hon, hon, hon! Ah, oui, un oeuf!” _

“What the _Hell?!”_

Crowley jolted up, just in time to see a _chicken_ meander past his open bedroom door, apparently bearing every facet of a stereotypical Frenchman. A beret on its head, a curly moustache growing from its beak, a cigarette perched between the feathers on its wing, and a freshly lain egg left in its wake, telling Crowley that despite its outward appearance, it was a _hen_.

And it was speaking_ French_.

What was going _on_?

Crowley hastened out of bed and threw on some clothes.

Maybe some time in a particular Soho bookshop would make him feel better.

  


_On the fourth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


“Crowley, you don't look well, are you quite all right?”

Crowley huffed as he accepted the tea from Aziraphale. He had only agreed to this particular lunch date (or dessert date, rather) on the grounds that they ordered in, paired with the promise that the angel hadn't cooked. For all his love of fine cuisine, the celestial being could burn water.

“Safe to say I haven't been sleeping well,” he groused as he sipped the tea while Aziraphale dug into the parcel of goodies he'd procured from the nearby bakery. He laid out a number of them on the platter for Crowley, and tittered pleasantly, clearly finding Crowley's complaint highly amusing.

“We don't _need _to sleep, dear,” Aziraphale reminded him, and Crowley frowned.

“It's a novelty I've come to enjoy, and Beelzebub has decided to irritate me to death with _birds_.”

“Birds?” Aziraphale blinked. It was rather sweet to watch, and Crowley was utterly distracted for a long moment before he thought to continue.

“Today it was blackbirds. Four little buggers singing some sort of song together like a little annoying choir. Yesterday it was _chickens. _I tried to kill and eat one, but they just pop back into existence like nothing ever happened.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale appeared particularly saddened by this news for some odd reason. Perhaps telling his angel that killing the bloody bird was a bit far for his delicate sensibilities?

But then, Aziraphale was far from what Crowley would call _delicate._

_This is going to take some more thinking, _Crowley decided as he selected a raspberry-cheesecake tart off the platter. After he moved it to his own plate, he mirrored Aziraphale and used a fork. Aziraphale noticed, and smiled again.

Not delicate to be sure, but his angel was most certainly sweet as heaven.

  


_On the fifth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


Crowley had expected more birds the next day, or perhaps some form of irritating plant.

What he hadn't expected was his _ceiling _to go missing.

The golden rings of Saturn were certainly too close. From this vantage point, he could see five of them. Given that all the other irritating animals in the place hadn't been bothered by its presence, Crowley had to assume that there was some sort of oxygen seal separating him from the planet.

While the five golden rings of Saturn (at least, he could only count five) were rather pretty to look at, it certainly didn't explain what Beelzebub was playing at.

Crowley couldn't look at it any longer, and he hastened out of his home in his pyjamas, and did not even notice until his bare feet came into contact with something cold and wet.

Crowley looked down.

Snow.

“Clearly Beelzebub has every intention of driving me mad,” Crowley grumbled, ignoring the odd looks of the passers-by of the madman in his jimjams as he stalked back into his flat for some proper clothes.

He doffed the pyjamas, dried his feet, and threw on some real clothing. He added an extra layer for warmth, despite the fact that he didn't need it—demons couldn't _get _cold, after all.

That finished with, Crowley hastened back down to the Bentley. It was his turn to amass breakfast, and his angel loved pastries.

Pastries it was. And perhaps some whisky for himself.

  


_On the sixth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


“_Honk! Honk! Honk!_”

“_Not more bloody birds!”_

  


Crowley stomped into his front room. Nothing sort of _six _nesting geese littered the place, but these were not as cognizant of their mortality as the other beasts in his home, and his front room's floor was utterly covered with feathers, straw from their nests, and goose droppings.

Crowley demon-miracled it all away, and tried the same thing with the birds, but predictably they just popped back into existence. From behind him, one of the French chickens said something that sounded curiously like, “_merde!_”

Once again the notion of confronting Beelzebub entered his mind. Anything to make this bird madness _stop._

Crowley let out a groan, and tilted his gaze skyward. That didn't help, as Saturn was still there.

  


_On the seventh day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..._

  


“_Angellllll..._” Crowley moaned from his place on the settee, while Aziraphale ignored him in favour of helping a customer who seemed to be looking for some sort of special rare bible.

“In a moment, dear,” Aziraphale replied cheerily, never once turning around as he spoke to the client, a portly vicar in a bowler hat.

“But there's a lake in my bedroom—and _swans_.”

“In a _moment_, Crowley.”

“Good gracious,” the vicar said. “Is that man quite all right?”

Crowley whined, and went back to his scotch. Aziraphale kept trying to give him cocoa, insisting it was _festive_, but waking up to a lake in one's bedroom was _certainly _not call for _cocoa_.

“He's fine,” Aziraphale replied, waving his hand dismissively. Crowley took another swig of the scotch and pouted when the angel added, “he's just a touch dramatic.”

“I'd be less dramatic if there wasn't a lake in my bedroom,” Crowley countered, but Aziraphale ignored him.

  


“Now then,” Aziraphale said cheerily as the customer left, and he turned around to smile brightly at Crowley. Though, if Crowley wasn't mistaken, he was that certain he could see a glimmer of nervousness in the angel's eye. “Perhaps some festive, seasonal music to cheer you up...”

“_Music?_” Crowley asked, wrinkling his nose. “How's _music _supposed to fix my bedroom?”

“You'd be quite amazed what a little music can do, dear,” Aziraphale replied in the same bright tone, moving over to his gramophone, and he selected a record from his collection, though Crowley was too far and too drunk to read the label.

A cheery tinkling of jingle bells filled the quiet, while Aziraphale miracled a cup of cocoa into existence, sat next to Crowley, and crossed his legs primly. For someone who had been spoken to a number of times about _frivolous miracles_, Crowley thought it was a bit rich that the angel could get away with something like that.

He didn't comment on it however, given that he could say the same about him using his demon powers for things that weren't strictly _evil, _like cleaning up goose dung.

“What—” Crowley began, but Aziraphale hushed him.

“Just listen to the music, dear.”

Crowley huffed and turned his attention to the record just a deep, operatic voice began to sing.

  


_On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..._

_A partridge in a pear tree._

_On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..._

_Two turtle doves,_

_And a partridge in a pear tree._

  


Crowley knew the song of course, long enough to have heard its earliest renditions and all the ridiculous parodies that followed in later centuries, all centred around the patchwork holiday of Pagan tradition and the incorrect birth date of Jesus, more commonly known as _Christmas_.

But despite this, through his drunken fog, Crowley thought there was more going on here than merely Aziraphale trying to cheer him up with a silly song.

_Wait..._

_True love..._

_Partridge..._

_Turtle Doves..._

“_Angel!_” he shouted, throwing the scotch bottle, but of course it had been miracled to not break, though its contents gurgled out of the neck and soaked into the expensive Persian rug. “_You! Why!?_”

“I thought it would be nice!” Aziraphale protested, sounding truly upset that _Crowley _was upset. “All those lovely things to gift your true love with, all those lovely songbirds...”

“A _goose _is not a songbird and you know it,” Crowley countered. “My flat has turned into a bloody _aviary_, I was going half-mad from it all, and you just _sat there_ and pretended you knew nothing!”

“I thought you're not supposed to say anything when you give a gift!”

“When one _likes_ the gift, yes!”

“So that's it, then,” Aziraphale said, taking a deep breath. Crowley saw his hands tighten around the cocoa mug for a moment. “You hated all the gifts. Even the turtle-doves?”

“Assuming you actually know what a real turtle dove is,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale frowned. Crowley's chest suddenly ached unpleasantly. The last time they'd argued was just preceding the Apocalypse, and that had not ended well.

Or, it hadn't ended well because he _thought _it hadn't ended well, before it, in fact, did.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said before Crowley could come to a decision on what to say, and he watched his angel flick his wrist, rather like he was trying to get water off his hands, and Crowley saw the shop's sign flip to _Closed_. Then, without pause, he disappeared down a narrow hall that Crowley knew led to the kitchen.

Crowley looked away, but his gaze fell almost immediately to the abandoned cup of cocoa. For some reason, that in particular was even more upsetting than hurting his angel's feelings. Aziraphale never not finished his cocoa, except when things were truly serious.

Crowley didn't like that, not one bit. His angel had to come back here and _finish _his cocoa.

Crowley leapt to his feet, and immediately wobbled.

_Or maybe I should sober up first._

Crowley scrunched up his face, wincing as the alcohol left his system. It filled the discarded bottle, and promptly trickled out of the neck to join the rest of it on the rug.

Pity, that. It had been rather good scotch.

More steady on his feet, Crowley hastened to the kitchen. Aziraphale was standing at the counter, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. The sight made Crowley's heart constrict.

Crowley had never been particularly good at consoling people. Usually he was just there to collect the ashes, so to speak. Certainly he was evil by nature, the _literal_ snake in the Garden, but neither had he ever made someone he cared for _cry_.

And really, there was only one being in this cosmos whom he could truly claim to _care _for in any capacity.

Uncertain what else he could do, Crowley stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's middle from behind.

“I'm sorry, Zira,” Crowley whispered, using the pet name for him that he rarely verbalised, save for those _intimate _moments when he spent the night.

Aziraphale tucked away his handkerchief and turned in Crowley's arms. He was smiling his usual sweet smile, as though nothing was wrong.

“Quite—quite all right,” he replied, despite the fact that they both knew that it was _not _all right. “I got rid of everything, and I won't send any maids-a-milking to your flat tomorrow.”

“_That _is a gift I can truly appreciate, Angel,” Crowley said, voice softening to something that was almost a whisper, and Aziraphale smiled. A true smile this time, one that made Crowley sag with relief. He hated it when Aziraphale was upset.

Crowley leant in and brushed a kiss across Aziraphale's lips. Gentle, searching. He didn't want to kiss Aziraphale if his angel wasn't looking for that sort of touch.

But then, when had Aziraphale ever_ not_ wanted to be held or kissed?

Aziraphale's arms coiled first around Crowley's waist, then up to touch his shoulders from behind, his arms just brushing the negative space where his wings should have been. Aziraphale leant into him, tasting sweetly of chocolate and cream. Crowley could feel his angel relaxing, perhaps relieved that their argument had not created a true wedge between them.

“Can I _tempt _you to a spot of lunch?” Crowley asked softly, the words whispered against his lips, “at the Ritz, perhaps? Call it a Christmas present.”

“Quite the temptation,” Aziraphale replied. “As it so happens, I believe a table _just _opened up.”

Crowley smiled, and kissed Aziraphale again.

“Merry Christmas, Aziraphale.”

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.”

  


The End

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Calling Birds used to be referred to as Collie Birds, which was an old term that referred to Blackbirds.  
Fruit-Bearing Bonsai Trees are a thing, which you can see on Google if you're interested.  
Ah, oui, un oeuf! means “Ah, yes, an egg!” and Merde is French for “Shit”. Though I'm fully Bilingual in French and English, my French grammar tends to be imperfect, in case there's any mistakes there :P


End file.
